


R and R

by beastdrips



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Grinding, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 00:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13283415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastdrips/pseuds/beastdrips
Summary: “None of that,” he says, muffled against his neck. “Right now it's Lor'themar.”





	R and R

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beatitupright](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatitupright/gifts).



After having read the same paragraph five times without retaining any of the information offered, Lor'themar pushes himself away from his desk with a heavy sigh. A precise stab of pain between his shoulder blades lets him know he's been hunched over the parchment for far too long, and when he stretches several resounding pops indicate vertebrae slipping back into place. He remains sitting in his high-backed chair for a moment, staring blankly at the wall ahead of him. His eye burns with the strain of reading and once he tires of being still he rises from his chair and paces about the room.

 

He stops by the window, and takes a moment to marvel at the fact that it's snowing. Winter Veil was right around the corner, and the crystallized flakes slowly drifting from the sky are a clear enough promise of that fact. From the spire he could see children playing in what had already fallen, gathering the snow up into balls and throwing them at each other under roaring laughter. He envies their freedom for a moment before coming back to himself and the reality of his situation. As Regent Lord of Quel'thalas, the future of the sin'dorei fell on his shoulders, and he wouldn't dare consider anyone else doing it. If you want something done properly, you do it yourself, they said. It wouldn't be appropriate for him to throw snowballs.

 

There's a curt knock at the door, sharp and rapt, shortly before it opens. Lor'themar knows who is the one entering before even turning around. He's long learned to differentiate between the knocks of his most regular visitors.

 

”Good afternoon, Rommath,” he greets, his eye not tearing away from the window. His hand sits strained against the small of his own back, the other one limply by his side and itching for something to hold, wanting the comfort of a weight in the palm.

 

”Lord Theron,” Rommath replies, and Lor'themar can vividly picture the slight dip of his head. Respectful, professional, and courteous as Rommath usually was, save for moments where the cool exterior slips and his fiery temper rears its flaming head. Though it may be seen as unseemly at times, Lor'themar has come to admire the man's passion for the things he believes in – namely the future of their people.

 

The adjustment towards Lor'themar as the leader of their people has had its bumps, especially when Rommath grieved so deeply for the betrayal they suffered from their crown prince, but they had easily fallen into a productive dynamic. It would happen that they come to butt heads over course of action from time to time.

 

Rommath fully enters the room, closing the door behind him as he stands tall and well-postured, and words hang in the air unspoken and waiting. Lor'themar teeters at the edge of the heavy silence for a moment, still not turning to address him properly, until finally he gives under the weight of the quiet. He turns his head toward Rommath  in a short moment that feels like a thousand lifetimes.

 

”What brings you to my office?” Lor'themar asks, studying the other man. He looks just about as put together as he always does. Robes finely pressed, hair tied back in a neat ponytail and arms folded behind his back. Only the dark circles under his eyes betray him, an attribute to the man's poor habits when it comes to self-care; along with the stress lines which crease the space between his eyebrows.

 

”Inquiries, my Lord, and reports from the Broken Isles,” comes the reply, and Lor'themar inwardly winces at the thought of more paperwork, more paragraphs to read and strain his eye over. He turns back toward the window, glances at the world outside and suppresses the sigh before it has a chance to grow in his throat.

 

”Leave them on my desk. I will get around to them,” he says. Rommath doesn't move.

 

”There is something else, my Lord,” Rommath says, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. ”The Magistrate has their hands full holding off demons; we're in need of reinforcements.”

 

Lor'themar turns fully, brows furrowing with slight puzzlement. ”What is it you're getting at, Rommath?”

 

After an inhale, eyes flickering away for the briefest second, Rommath finally meets Lor'themar's gaze.

  
”We may have to consider employing our trainees and students to bolster our ranks.”

 

Lor'themar feels the frown consuming his face.

 

”They're hardly more than children,” he says.

 

”I know.”

 

Lor'themar lets loose the sigh that's been tempting in his throat and begins pacing the room anew. He's hesitant to send out inexperienced soldiers to subject them to the terrors of war, but the more he thinks about it the less of a choice it seems. The sin'dorei population is thin as it is, but if their war effort crumbled and the Burning Legion gained the upper hand in any scenario, that would mean the end for the blood elves, and all other races along with them.

 

With a strained grunt of dissatisfaction, Lor'themar steers himself to the counter sitting along the wall opposite of his desk – little more than a glorified bar – and pours a drink. After a moment of consideration, he pours a second one. Arming himself with the two glasses, he approaches Rommath and offers him one of them without a word.

 

The Magister blinks slowly at him, then his eyes fall toward the glass and he stands for a moment as if he's uncertain whether he should accept the drink or not. He does, eventually, and tugs down the fabric covering his mouth to sip at it slowly.

 

Lor'themar is glad for the company, glad for any reason not to sit back down and re-establish the pain in his shoulders. Having a drink with one of his advisers is as good an excuse as any, even if it might seem out of the blue.

 

”You will authorize the decision, then?” Rommath asks, as if reading his mind. Lor'themar swallows a generous sip of his drink and nods.

 

”Unfortunately,” he says bitterly.

 

A hand upon his arm comes as a surprise, and the Lord Regent blinks at the bright red runes along the attached arm before staring at the face of its owner. Rommath's hand retreats immediately and he looks embarrassed, or perhaps awkward. If it was an attempt at comfort, Lor'themar isn't sure – it's not something he is prone to, or has ever done, really. Rommath looks away and clears his throat.

“I have utmost faith our education is enough that they will be able to take care of themselves,” he says without meeting Lor'themar's eye. It's hard to tell if it's simply the red of his collar reflecting on his skin, or if that's a faint blush tinting his cheeks.

 

The intricacies of courtship, as of late, are something that is lost on Lor'themar. For all his grace and grandstanding, when it comes to relationships he somehow feels he falls short. Not only because his tastes lay elsewhere than the norm, but in recent years he's become uncharacteristically, well, shy when it came to flirting. The spot where Rommath touched him feels like it's burning.

 

He's known he is attracted to men for a long time, but rarely has he found the gall to approach anyone he deems well suited to whet his appetite. The game feels so much more delicate when it comes to finding someone of the same gender, the nuances of signals so much more subtle and fleeting. Though he'd gotten skilled at spotting the signs, Lor'themar found he more often than not decided not to pursue them.

 

Romantic awkwardness is hardly becoming of a Regent Lord, but he always utilizes the excuse of being far too busy for such dalliances. Not that he is bereft of fantasizing about it in his lonelier hours. Thoughts of broad shoulders and a deep, soothing voice often weave in and out of his few scattered daydreams. It has been a long time since he's felt the tender touch of someone else, longer still since he's fallen into anything close to a domestic way of being around each other.

 

“Indeed,” Lor'themar says, feeling more than distracted. It's as if that one single touch made his thoughts spiral out of control, and suddenly he's focusing a little too hard on the way Rommath's lips curl around the brim of his glass as he sips his drink.

 

His own sits forgotten in his hand and his mouth feels dry.

 

“Rommath,” he says and his mind reels over how quiet it sounds, and he clears his throat to sound clearer. “I am about to request something of you in confidence that it will not leave this room.”

 

“Yes, my Lord?” Rommath says, and he seems to manage to look him properly in the eye again.

 

“Kiss me.”

 

He expects a rejection, or awkward silence, not sudden electricity between them from the way Rommath's eyes widen.

 

He definitely doesn't expect the man to oblige with enough vigor his glass is nearly knocked out of his hand. Rommath's lips are dry and they feel chapped and raspy against his own. The kiss is clumsy, over-eager and a little too hard. It's not the romantic, soft kiss of daydreams and fantasies, but it's good enough.

 

A tongue presses against his bottom lip, and he opens his mouth eagerly to welcome it. It's more than good enough. Rommath sighs and he can feel it against his cheeks, can feel a hand settling on his chest and Lor'themar decides that's his cue to place his hands on Rommath's waist, pulling the man closer to himself. It's perfect.

 

Before he can quite grasp what's happening, he's pressing Rommath against the wall, and the man's arms are around his neck. They're kissing fiercely now, teeth occasionally knocking together and heads dipping to tease and nip at bared throats. Rommath's previously neat ponytail slowly comes loose, strands falling out and becoming a general state of disarray.

 

Lor'themar somehow fits a hand between them and finds the bulge making itself known straining against the Magister's robe. He palms him slowly, continuing to entertain a spot behind his jaw that seems to make him shiver. A breathy moan next to his ear lets him know what he's doing is greatly appreciated, and he gives a gentle squeeze as Rommath begins rolling his hips against his hand.

 

“Please,” he whispers, and the sound of it sends a shiver straight down Lor'themar's spine. Overcome with some sort of primal instinct, he gives one last kiss against his lips before he tugs him over to the couch sitting in the middle of the room. He pushes him down on it and is on top of him in moments, beginning to undo the clasps of his robes so he can touch him more fully, more intimately.

 

“My Lord,” Rommath breathes, and Lor'themar grunts in disapproval.

 

“None of that,” he says, muffled against his neck. “Right now it's Lor'themar.”

 

He feels fingers card through his hair, and can barely hear the soft echo of his name. He lets out a deep rumble of satisfaction, and in the same moment he manages to free Rommath of his bright red robes. Lor'themar lets his hands roam freely over the expanse of his torso, lets them slide down his chest and stomach and back up. He lays on him enough for their sexes to press together, and he lets out a strained groan as he rolls his hips against him.

 

Under kisses and breathless moans they grind against each other until they're panting, the movements growing erratic and desperate until it comes to a peak, their mouths crashing together in another fierce kiss, shivering and straining from the intensity of their passions.

 

“Rommath,” Lor'themar murmurs against his lips, feeling stress and tension peel off of him like a discarded robe.

 

“Lor'themar,” comes the reply, hesitant, lingering just before speaking like it's forbidden. With a soft sigh, the Lord Regent lays his head upon his adviser's chest. What they've done has to stay in this room. It would surely provoke a scandal should it ever slip out that the Lord Regent and the Grand Magister got involved. The door was even unlocked.

 

“You said only to kiss you,” Rommath says above his head, and Lor'themar lets out a quiet chuckle.

 

“I've always been one to take initiative,” he replies, and he feels more than content to just lay there for a moment longer.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a slightly belated christmas gift to my fiance,  
> I hope you enjoyed it!


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